Proper Ink

by Zeia Jameson

  I haven’t heard anything from her in almost a week. I can’t stop thinking about her. I want to. I don’t like this obsessive nagging in the back of my head.

  I want to go back to Normal Luca, who focuses on his work, his business.

  At the same time, I want to know why she isn’t obsessing about me like I am about her.

  Why she didn’t come back.

  Externally, I have to play it cool. I’ll sit at the counter, eat my sage sausage cornbread waffles, smothered with maple pepper syrup, and wait for her to show up.

  I expect she’ll come with a group of friends or coworkers.

  What I don’t expect is her walking in with a guy.

  An older guy. A sharp-dressed, clean-cut guy.

  I watch as he guides them to a table and they sit. Napkins in the lap. Coffees. Mimosas. Her attention is completely focused on him. She laughs, touches his arm, flips her hair.

  I look down at my plain, slightly faded black T-shirt and worn jeans. I run my hand over my three-day-old stubble.

  Just hanging out. Casual. Neither of those warrants my being here gawking at Kerry while she enjoys brunch with someone way more suitable for her. I’m the friend of the friend. The mysterious bad boy she had to sleep with to get out of her system.

  I fish my wallet from my back pocket, retrieve a twenty, and throw it onto the counter, next to the plate of my barely touched waffles.

  I stand to leave, glancing at Kerry one more time as I walk toward the door.

  She sees me. Looks directly at me. She smiles at me. I don’t skip a beat. I exit the building and head back to the shop.

  “Luca!” I hear from behind me. I don’t stop, but she says my name again. I turn to see her half running toward me. When she catches up, she hugs me. I don’t reciprocate the hug. I say no words.

  She looks up at me. “Hey. What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” I don’t understand what she’s doing. Is she trying to save face? Make an excuse for why she’s there with him instead of me?

  “You don’t seem fine, Luca.”

  I nod my head in the direction of the restaurant. “What does your date think about you running out here to talk to me?”

  “My date? Who, Phillipe? He’s the caterer working on the St. Paddy’s Day ball with Padraig’s mom. We came here for a quick break from the chaos. We’re headed back to the hall as soon as we’re done.”

  Phillipe. The caterer. Work. Of course.

  I let out a frustrated sigh.

  “Do you want to come back and sit with us? Hang out? Maybe go back with us to the hall? You can see what we’ve been working on. I think Padraig will be there with Stella.”

  “No,” I say without thought.

  “No? Okay. I just thought, since you were here, we could—”

  “Hang out?”

  She smiles and pushes hair behind her ear. “Well, yeah.”

  “I have a busy day,” I lie. “I’ve gotta head back to the shop.” I feel like an ass for assuming she was on a date. For being jealous for no reason. My head is in a fog. I want her to come with me. To hide from the world in my apartment. Kerry and me and no one else.

  But she’s too busy. Too busy for me.

  “Luca,” she starts. I shove my hands into my pockets to refrain from pulling my hair out or wrapping her up in a hug. I’m not sure which. “I’m sorry I haven’t . . .” She shifts and looks at the ground. “I’m sorry I haven’t come by. Since . . .”

  “It’s no big deal. I know you’ve got a lot going on.”

  “Exactly. I spent a few days doing everything by myself, Rachel constantly at my throat. Then Stella came back, and we’re just making sure nothing falls through the cracks with this event. It’s a big deal to Stella. To me. We don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

  “It’s fine. Really. I’ve been pretty busy too,” I lie again.

  “Okay. Good.” Kerry looks back up at me and smiles, her eyes glistening a little. “As soon as all of this is over, I promise that we can hang out more. Does that sound okay?”

  Hang out. I hate those two words so much.

  “Sure. Sounds good.”

  “Great. Well, I have to get back.” She points her thumb over her shoulder. Then she comes in again for a hug. I take my hands out of my pockets, and this time I hug her back. I want to squeeze her and hold on forever, but I keep it light. Casual. I let go when she does. She gives me another adorable smile. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She turns back toward the restaurant and looks in my direction again through the window once she goes in. She smiles.

  I smile back, then turn and head toward the shop.

  My head is so fucked up right now.

  Two and a Half Years Ago

  I take a look at my surroundings, at all of the work that has been done to this place since I agreed to take Padraig’s offer.

  We gutted the first level and began renovating two days after he made me the offer. I thought about his words. About the chance he was giving me. I could remain a street vendor until I figured out a better option, or I could accept his offer with blind faith and move forward. Nothing to lose. I had to place my trust in Padraig when he said that there were no negative repercussions of what was being handed to me. The only thing I had to focus on was success or failure.

  I’ve never been a fan of failure.

  The top floor still had its original tattoo booths, which remained open for use while we demoed the first floor. I made some fliers and distributed them around town to the businesses that would let me post them there, as well as tacking them up on campus boards close to the college. Business was steady, and in between all of the walk-ins I had, I worked downstairs to make it what Padraig had envisioned. He helped as much as he could. Lars came in occasionally, always offering his stamp of approval. It wasn’t required, but it definitely was appreciated.

  I’m finishing up a fresh coat of paint on the walls of the new waiting area when the bell chimes above the front door. A bell I installed as soon as physically possible.

  I place the paint roller down into the paint tray and turn to see who has come in. When I realize who stands there before me, my knees almost buckle.

  “Hi, Luca.”

  I haven’t heard that voice in almost six months. I haven’t seen that face in that same amount of time. My throat goes completely dry, and I find it extremely difficult to respond.

  I clear my throat until I feel like I can squeeze out a few words.

  “Hello, Mallory.”

  She’s pregnant. Extremely pregnant. Her belly protrudes out so far that I don’t know how to comprehend it. She told me she was pregnant six months ago. I remember that. But now she is standing here in front of me, as pregnant as can be, and I don’t know how to process it.

  My first instincts point to a gentlemanly obligation. “Here,” I say as I grab a chair from the other side of the room. “Sit. Please. Are you okay?”

  She takes the seat I offer her. “Yes, I suppose.”

  I look at her for a moment. We remain silent for some time.

  “I don’t mean to sound like a dick, but what are you doing here?” I ask, wishing I could instantly take back the words.

  Don’t upset the pregnant woman.

  She exhales loudly. “I’m not trying to sound like a complete, bitchy psycho; I’m here to see how you are doing.”

  “Okay,” I respond, trying to understand. “Why? Why now?”

  “Um. Well.” She squirms in the chair a little. “Greg,” she says, then stops. She runs her hands through her hair. I used to love when she did that. “Greg, my fiancé.” She stalls again and looks me straight in the eye, waiting for me to register those words. I do not deny that it stings internally. Stings hard. But I try not to let on with any outer expression whatsoever. I just stand there looking at her as she looks at me.

  “Greg got a tattoo last week. He was telling me where he got it from as he was showing it to me. Whi
le I was looking at the tattoo, it evoked a feeling of familiarity within me. I felt like I knew exactly who had done the tattoo. He told me he went to a shop that had been highly recommended.”

  I’m feeling the dots connecting. I’m thinking back on the work I did last week.

  “I asked him the name of the person who did the tattoo. But I already knew the answer.”

  A guy came in last week. Got a tattoo of a rose and a snowflake on his forearm. He told me it was for his fiancée and his kid. He brought me a decent printout of what he wanted. I drew a sketch and put a little extra detail into it. Intertwined them. I thought getting a tat representing his wife and his child was an admirable statement to his family. I wanted to make it perfect.

  Motherfucker.

  “He told me your name. Luca.”

  I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t. She just looks at me with sorrowful eyes.

  “So, what? You wanted to come down here and rub my nose in it? That I did a tat for your baby daddy that’s for the two of you?” I point at her belly. My chest is constricting. I’m finding it difficult to breathe. But I try to stay calm in front of her.

  “No!” she exclaims, almost choking on her words. “No, Luca,” she says softly. “I wanted to come see you. To tell you how incredibly sorry I am. For hurting you. I am so sorry, Luca.” Tears fall from her eyes and trickle down her face.

  Don’t upset the pregnant woman.

  “Please don’t cry. It’s not necessary. I am okay. Really.”

  She wipes her face and recomposes herself. She nods. “Okay.”

  She pauses. “I couldn’t believe that it was you. That you had become a tattoo artist.”

  “Did you come down here to pass your judgment on me, then?” I ask, trying hard not to sound defensive.

  She shakes her head. “That is not what I came here for. I just had to see it for myself. It was hard to believe. But his tattoo is beautiful. Gorgeous. It couldn’t have been anyone but you.”

  She runs her hand through her hair again. “How did you get here, Luca?” She has concern on her face. I want to scream at her.

  You are how I got here!

  But I don’t.

  “I don’t really think you are in any position to ask me any questions at all,” I say flatly.

  She looks up at the ceiling and blinks a few times. “You’re right. You are absolutely right.”

  She stands and walks toward me. I don’t make a single movement. She is inches from me now, her belly almost touching me. “I am really sorry, Luca. I am so sorry I hurt you.” More tears fall down her face.

  “Mallory,” I begin. I don’t know what else to say to her. I want to be angry. I want to yell. I want to tell her how much I hate her. But I do none of those things.

  “Look. I’m fine, okay?” I swing my arm around, showing her the space. “I fell upon a business opportunity, and I took it. I didn’t know tattooing was my thing, but apparently it is. I’m fine. I’m happy. I am okay.”

  She smiles at me through her tears and nods. She slides a hand under her belly.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. “Do you need anything?”

  “No. I just wanted to come down here and see for myself that this was real. And I wanted to apologize to you. As pathetic as that may be.”

  I slowly reach for the hand that isn’t clutching her stomach and grab it. Good God, touching her spirals my mind out of control, but I contain it. “Thank you. For the apology. And for coming to see what I’ve built. I am okay. Really. Please don’t feel anything bad for me. The past is the past. You have a family you need to take care of. Focus on that. Be happy.”

  More tears fall down her face.

  Goddammit.

  She squeezes my hand.

  “We’re okay,” I say. “You and I are okay. Everything is going to be fine. Really.”

  She nods. Sniffles. Wipes her face.

  “Okay,” she says.

  I smile at her, as hard as it fucking is to do it. “Now, I’m not trying to kick you out, but I’m painting and I’ve heard paint fumes aren’t good for pregnant women.”

  She smiles back at me. “Of course. You’re right.”

  “Let me walk you out.”

  I walk with her outside. She gives me a hug, and I accept it.

  “Are you going to be okay getting home?” I ask her.

  “Yes, I will be fine.”

  “Take care of yourself, Mallory.” The same words I said to her all those months ago. They have a different meaning but the same meaning all at once. “Go. Be happy. Live a good life.”

  “You too, Luca. Live a good life.”

  “I will.”

  She turns and walks away. I watch her for a little while until she goes into another store.

  I go back into the parlor. I walk into the booth section that’s just been completed. I look around and see what we’ve accomplished in such a short time. Brand new booths. Chairs. Tat guns. Supplies. It’s almost all ready. I wipe my hand over a counter of one of the booths. I look over to the mirror and stare at my reflection. I’m completely different. I sent Mallory off satisfied that she had accomplished her goal—to come and find peace of mind. Release a demon she’d been carrying. That weight was lifted from her. I saw it all over her face before she walked away. She will no longer have to hold that burden. She’ll move forward being happy, free of guilt.

  My hand finds a tin can of tattoo salve and grabs it. Squeezes it hard. Hard enough until the pain of the grip turns to numbness. I rear my arm back and sling the tin straight into the mirror in front of me. The glass shatters and falls to the floor in slow motion.

  I tattooed her fucking fiancé. A rose and a snowflake for Mallory and her baby. His baby. His fiancée.

  I grip my hair in my hands and pull as hard as I can, hoping I rip it all out. My heart pounds, and my eyes grow hot with tears. I crouch down on the floor. And I scream. As loud and as hard as I can. I scream until there is no more air in my lungs. I stay there for I don’t know how long. Then I remember there is a nearly full bottle of bourbon upstairs that Padraig left a few days ago. He brought it to celebrate the first floor being almost complete. We’d poured a little into two glasses to toast. The rest is still there to be drunk.

  I charge upstairs to find it. When I do, I screw off the cap and put the bottle to my lips. I chug until I can’t any more. I take a few breaths and then chug some more.

  My. Head. Pounds. Hard.

  I groan, and that makes my head hurt more.

  “Hey, brother,” I hear in the distance. I can’t quite open my eyes yet. I cover them with my arm to try to bring darkness. I need darkness.

  “I’m happy to see you moving. I was worried there for a bit.”

  Even though I can’t see him, I can’t mistake the accent that belongs to Padraig. I don’t respond.

  “There’s plenty of water and medicine beside you when you’re ready. But I recommend taking both sooner rather than later.”

  “Go the fuck away,” I moan. I turn onto my side and pull whatever is covering me over my head.

  My eyes flutter open trying hard to adjust to the light in the room. I stretch and yawn, the movement of my jaw wreaking havoc on the pain in my head. I wince.

  “Are you finally ready to get up?”

  Fucking Padraig. I vaguely remember him being here before. I wonder how long I’ve been out.

  I inhale deeply through my nose and exhale slowly out of my mouth. My eyes flutter again. I make a feeble attempt to sit up, and fail. I lie flat on my back and try to breathe again. Once. Twice.

  My eyes find themselves permanently open. I look around to find Padraig. “Why are you here?”

  “I came to bring you some dinner last night because I know you’d been working all day on painting. I walked in to see a smashed mirror and you on the floor, passed out and completely unresponsive. You fucking scared the shit out of me. I propped you up, made you drink some fluids. You threw up twice. Yelled about someone named Mallory
and then went back to sleep. I almost called an ambulance for you. But I called my paramedic buddy instead, and he said you should be okay as long as I stayed and watched you. To make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit.”

  This causes me to sit up quickly. My stomach lurches. I stand and run to the bathroom. I sit on the floor and puke into the toilet until my stomach cramps with a pain I’ve never felt before and nothing but bitter fluid comes out of my throat.

  “D’ya need a cold cloth or something? Some water?”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Thank you for not letting me die. Now, will you please leave? I just want to be alone.”

  “Fuck no, I won’t. I don’t know what happened to you last night, but it was something significant, and I’m not leaving you alone until you’re fully recuperated.”

  I look up at him and try my best to shoot daggers at him with my eyes. “I did a tat on a guy last week, and it turns out the guy was my pregnant ex-girlfriend’s fiancé. And the tat was for her. And the baby.”

  Padraig rakes his hand over his face. “Fucking shite.”

  “Yeah, man. Fucking shite.” I mock his accent and his stupid word.

  “That is really fucked up.” He has no reaction to my mockery. “I’m still not leaving you until you’re better.”

  I grab the edge of the sink and pull myself up. I splash water on my face a few times. I look at myself in the mirror. I look like absolute shit. My eyes are bloodshot and my skin is pale. Almost gray.

  “I just want to go back to sleep,” I say, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser and wiping my face dry.

  “Okay,” Padraig says. “How about not on the floor, though? Lie on the couch for a while. Sleep. I’ll come back in a few hours with some coffee and bagels. How does that sound?”

  The mention of bagels makes my stomach churn. I almost think I’m going to hurl again right there in the sink. I restrain myself from doing so and stand straight, taking in a deep breath.

  “Whatever, man.” I amble my way to the couch and thrust my body down onto it. I close my eyes immediately. I feel something being draped over me. Fucking Padraig.